Ashes Remain
by AlaskanAppaloosa
Summary: A brief one-shot glimpse of Obi-Wan on Tatooine after the events of Mustafar.


**I've always been intrigued by the aftermath of multi-layered stories such as Star Wars' _Revenge of the Sith_, especially the lasting effects they have on the remaining characters afterwards. I don't want another twenty movies containing more ripoffs of the Empire and the Rebellion. I want one about the psychological scarring that must have accompanied the near annihilation of an entire religion group. The tampering with and eventual decommissioning of the clone troopers. The slow, gradual rise of the Empire. PTSD. The aftermath.**

**Please give us a Kenobi movie, Disney. Please and thank you.**

* * *

Obi-Wan Kenobi opens his eyes to the sand-encrusted ceiling of the hut.

_His_ hut, he realizes. _Must get used to that._ Sitting up slowly, he slides his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling the gritty floor beneath his bare feet. He bends over to rub the sleep from his face. His beard is roughed to a coarse bristle across his face, baked dry in the scorching heat. _Blasted weather here._ His fingertips reach his temples and remain there, gingerly rotating circles of pressure.

Battered. Bruised. _Exhausted_. Perhaps it is the bed's fault. A simple slab of stone cut out of the wall with a couple of thick, hairy blankets thrown overtop. Loose fur is in Kenobi's mouth, thick and musty. The hut's original owner must have been a big jerba hunter before he'd abandoned the place. The pelts are everywhere.

Battered. Bruised. Exhausted. No, it's not the bed, uncomfortable as it is, that has kept his eyes from fully closing for more than a few minutes at a time. It is what he sees _after_ his eyelids grow too heavy to hold open anymore. It is what seizes him every time he falls into that trap of sleep. It is what he sees even now, even as he attempts to massage the images from his throbbing brain.

"_I HATE YOU!"_

_You should. I failed you._

Kenobi stands. The sandy floor is comforting beneath his feet. He feels it grind beneath his heels as he makes his way to the wash basin in the bathroom. _Watch the step._ He'd stubbed his toe the first day he'd stayed in the place. _Turn on the sink._ Careful- it likes to stick. Too much sand caked around its joints. _Wash your face._ The water's a bit warm. It feels good. Kenobi splashes some into his hair too. He pushes the rusty orange away from his face, trying but failing to smooth it into place across his forehead. Both hands then attempt to tame his beard, flatten it into some measure of decency. It is a battle he is slowly losing. His appearance is already fading, a quiet submission to the cruel duet of wind and broiling heat. Tatooine ages one faster than any growth-acceleration drug in the galaxy ever could.

He frowns. There are circles under his eyes, pitted lines of sleeplessness and anxiety. That will never do. He tries to rub them away, but just like his hair, they don't submit. He turns instead for the kitchen. The hum of the stove fills the quiet hut.

It is too quiet. But for the moan of the wind outside the door, the place is deadly silent. Kenobi is alone.

He is alone.

He expects to feel something. Crushing grief, perhaps. Instead, all he feels is numb. An emptiness greater than the desolate landscape outside.

He tries it again. _I am alone._

All of them. Everyone he grew up with. Everyone he trained with. Everyone he fought alongside. Everyone he would have defended with his life. All of them. All gone.

He wants to feel something. He wants to feel pain. Anger. Anything. He wants to cry. He wants to honor their memory with great, soul-wracking sobs. But still he feels nothing.

_You were my brother. I loved you._

That impulsive, arrogant, insubordinate, _annoying_ boy. Other masters' padawans didn't find loopholes in every order. They didn't make fun of their superiors. They didn't argue or talk back.

Little brothers did that.

Jedi weren't supposed to have attachments. It distracted them, slowed them down. Everything must be done for the greater good. Compassion was the cornerstone of their actions, but when the time came, they were expected to let go.

And that was how he had failed. Because when the time had come, he had been unable to let the boy go.

His breakfast is burning. Kenobi pulls it from the stove quickly, setting it on the counter. He swats at the flames licking at the hard, coarse bread made tougher now by a thick exoskeleton of char. He burns his hand and jerks it away automatically. Wincing. He sticks his fingers in his mouth to cool them.

What if he had put out the fire on Mustafar? What if he had grabbed his brother's hand, pulling him, dragging him away from the flames? If he had ripped his own cloak from his shoulders, beating at the orange tongues eating away at his best friend's body? Held him there, comforted his cries of agony, his screams of hatred?

What if he had never taken the fatal swing in the first place? He had ignited his weapon first, after all. It was his fault. He'd provoked the boy. He shouldn't have done that. How could he have been so one-minded? He'd just felt so _angry_. Betrayed.

_You were my brother. I loved you. _Past-tense. Does he not still love the boy? Does the fact that his friend has now taken a path different than his own now render that love non-existent? Kenobi is confused.

If only he had stopped to _think_ for a moment. Reason with his apprentice. Not lecture him. He knew quite well how much his padawan hated lectures. It was his fault. He'd provoked the boy.

No.

He's seen what that… that _thing_ did to Padmé. If anyone could have reasoned with him, it would have been her. And now she is dead. Whatever is now wearing his best friend's face is no longer Anakin Skywalker. It is something else entirely.

Anakin Skywalker is gone.

So then what had stayed his hand from simply ending it then and there? It would have been so easy to simply swing the lightsaber one last time. He would have ended the pain. The suffering. The hatred. It would have been erased from the galaxy forever.

Mustafar had presented Obi-Wan with the hardest decision of his life. He had not known which path to choose.

And in his weakness, he had chosen neither.

Approaching the now-cooled bread cautiously this time, he attempts to tear it open. The outside is thick, crumbling black. Yet at the very center lies soft white. Still good. He carefully tears it from its charred shell and settles down to eat his breakfast in the silence.


End file.
